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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826321">Crazier shit than this</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_4_feels/pseuds/all_4_feels'>all_4_feels</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mornings of inevitability [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>True Detective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1995, Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Marty, Bisexual Rust, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Developing Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Insomnia, M/M, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Rust's POV, Slash, Smut, Touch-Starved</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:41:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27826321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_4_feels/pseuds/all_4_feels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>I've done crazier stuff than infiltrating Ginger's biker gang. One morning prior at my place, Marty wants me to prove it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rustin "Rust" Cohle &amp; Martin "Marty" Hart, Rustin "Rust" Cohle/Martin "Marty" Hart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mornings of inevitability [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Bad men</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marty says that I'm partly to blame for his problems with Maggie. That I created... "tensions" when I asked him to rub himself off against my ass in that shower all those weeks ago. And I don't doubt it. Hell, I admit my fault to a whole lot of things. Things that I would rather not think about right now. I am not without blame, not by a long shot. But then again, it's not like I was the one where it all started. I didn't force him to dip his dick in that crazy bimbo from the courthouse, and who knows how many others before that. He was already cheating on his wife long before I sought out comfort from his body. All I did was seize the opportunity and join the undoubtedly long line. </p><p>I know Marty's type. They never stop, and started so long ago that they have to lie about it, even and <em>especially</em> to themselves. I know that this all should make me question the quality of my own character, make me think about what kind of person I am, but it doesn't. I know what I am. That's the one all-encompassing difference between Marty and myself. I have never mistaken myself for a good man. </p><p>Marty could've refused me, and I could've turned down his help. And yet, it went down the way it went. Everybody's got a choice. That's why I don't feel overly quilty when one morning at my place, upon finding me staring into my eye-sized mirror once again, he sneaks up behind me and presses his hard dick against my pajama-clad ass. </p><p>Marty finally asked me about it, last night. The mirror, that is. I know that he's been itching to, ever since he moved in. He didn't do that for a long time. Ask me questions. Not after he realized that he didn't really want to hear the answers. Except that he really <em>did</em>, but was too chickenshit to admit it. I know this, because he told me. He's told me a great many things lately. Then again, he's been drunk a lot lately. It's partly my fault, I've encouraged it. Another nail to my cross to bear. I've grown so used to carrying it. I know that there'll be plenty more nails before all of this is over, but perhaps after I've solved this case, I could lay it down, just for a bit. Along with the bottle in my hand. I'm so tired. </p><p>I've been drunk a lot lately. It's partly Marty's fault, he hasn't exactly discouraged it. Just like he hasn't discouraged me with his endless questions. Like I said, I'm nothing if not an opportunist. Nobody ever asks me, but if they do, there's no end to my words. I tell myself that it's because I have such a deep well from which to draw, and while that's true, the real reason is much less cultivated, much more fundamental. The same reason why I lean back into his warmth as he wraps two strong arms around my middle, pulling me into his burgeoning morning erection. </p><p>I told Marty that the mirror is another form of meditation, roughly similar to the small wooden crucifix on the wall over my bed... or "mattress", as he insists to call it... not that I care, I don't spend much time in it, anyway. I told him that it makes it easier for me to think when I can look at something that my mind can get lost into. He, of course, made some stupid ass joke about my "inflated self-image", about me spending hours upon hours in front of my mirror, just staring and admiring my own reflection, getting lost in my own eyes because I think they're <em>so goddamn pretty</em>... though curiously enough, his words lacked their usual bite. Drunk as he was, he then told me a little later with a suspiciously quiet voice that my eyes were indeed pretty, and that's when I told him to fuck off to sleep. However, I would have been lying if I had said that I didn't feel my cheeks warming up a little as I watched him stagger upstairs to my "actual" bed. </p><p>"You really do have pretty eyes," Marty, however, now murmurs into my ear, completely sober, and I almost drop my half-empty Jameson. "Or... an eye," he chuckles, the great comedian, taking the bottle from my hand and tossing it onto a chair nearby before pressing his lips to the back of my neck, causing my scruff to stand on end. Totally taken aback by the shockingly unneutral touch, I reach out, taking support from the wall. I can already feel my starved body responding to the endearments, my dick growing hard in my briefs. </p><p>"Marty... What-...," I start to ask, gasping as Marty proceeds to place slow, wet smooches across my shoulders and down the length of my nape. "Rust, you're a... a crazy son of a bitch, you know that," he whispers in between kisses, one of his hands untightening around me and snaking up to wrap itself around my neck, closing around my nervously working throat, while the other one reaches down to cup my hardening cock through my pajamas. Lifting my chin up, he forces me to look at myself in the mirror. "What you're about to do..." </p><p>I told Marty about the cartel on the border that I used to work for during my days in the East Texan task force, and that compared to their... <em>ritual</em> regarding dealing with undercover Five-O's and other "rats", a bullet to the head from Ginger and his men ain't shit. The face that he gave me was of the kind of which meaning I would rather not dwell upon too much. "I've done crazier shit than this," I reply hoarsely, looking at my own eye in the reflection as Marty's large hand palms at my hardening cock. His body is a solid wall of heat against my back, the hot, hard curve of his erection digging between my cheeks taking me back into that locker room shower. </p><p>"Oh yeah," Marty purrs, fucking <em>purrs</em> against my shoulder, momentarily letting go of my clothed crotch to push his hand underneath the elastic band of my briefs, curling his thick, calloused fingers around my corresponding erection. A small, involuntary moan escapes my lips as I stutter at the contact, his skin rough and scalding against my sensitive, weeping flesh. "Why don't you show me." </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. King of the whole world</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I don't need a long time to contemplate the thought. "... Alright," I breathe at the image of my own shiny, consistently red-rimmed eye, my voice hoarse. "Why don't you go sit in that chair, then," I encourage, one of my hands falling off the wall to reach down to Marty's thick wrist, pulling his big paw off from where it's curled, hot and compelling, around my dick. For a moment he refuses to ease up his hold on me, continuing to ground me with the warm, meaty palm against my trachea as he proceeds to press the last few, slow kisses onto my shoulder. "... Okay," he grunts at long last, and then he lets go of me entirely, leaving me standing, unsteady, as he steps back and away from me, padding over to the brown leather armchair by the kitchen counter and removing my bottle from the seat before plopping heavily onto it himself. I can't see him, but I can sense him throwing his arms up in the air in an expectant manner. 'Well? What then?' </p><p>Lingering in front of the mirror, wobbling a little, I gather myself before finally tearing my one slightly dilated pupil off of its own reflection and turning towards Marty, walking over to him. The floor feels shifty beneath my bare feet. I've been up for some time already, woke up and started straight up drinking, trying to get myself into the right headspace for the day. I did make coffee for Marty, though. 'Twas the least I could do after the few blessed hours of sleep that I got... not that it's got anything to do with him, of course not. </p><p>Coming to stand in front of Marty, I fall swiftly to my knees before him. As I reach out to grab the sides of his sleep shorts, starting to pull them off his strong, muscular legs, he suddenly hurries to stop me. "H-h-hey, hey, hey," he stammers, catching my hands and gathering them into his own, and then he meets my gaze, pale blue eyes blown wide like those of a frightened deer, caught in the headlights. "W-what... are you doing," he gasps, barely above a whisper, and I get the fleeting, disheartening feeling that I've read the signs all wrong, which would be remarkable indeed. I usually don't. "You want this or not," I rasp, patient as can be, trying not to show just how fucking badly it'll ruin this morning for me if he tells me no <em>now</em>. After <em>he</em> initiated it. </p><p>The look that Marty gives me is filled with tentative hesitation. Of course. I should have known. The gay panic, here we go. "W-what are you doing," he repeats, his voice shaky around the edges. Goddamn. This idiot. "I'm going to suck you off," I tell him without further ado, answering to his precarious gaze with accentuated determination. His expression is one of startled shock, as though he had expected something completely different to come out of my mouth, even though we both must know what's going to go down here. We-... we just <em>gotta</em>. Although I... I do get it, though. Saying it aloud makes it finally real, somehow. This is real. This is really happening. Blinking, I clear my throat before pushing on. "Now, if you've got a problem with that, you can just take care of business in the bathroom." It takes a good long minute for him to shake himself off his stupor. "What... N-no, no, no," he objects with some lingering hesitancy, eyes still wide as saucers as he releases his grip on my hands in favor of reaching out and cupping my face in an alarmingly gentle manner. "Y-you go ahead, man." </p><p>I don't need to be told twice, all this unnecessary stalling is getting real dull real fast. My own cock seems to share the sentiment. Flashing Marty one last verifying look all the same, I get on with stripping him of his sleep shorts. At last his hands fall off my face and, with his eyes still nailed to mine, a fearful fawn incarnate as I've ever seen him, he lifts his hips, allowing me to pull the soft garment off his feet. Letting the shorts drop to the floor beside me with a faint thud, I then move on to his briefs, where the hard curve of the most honest part of his body has created a wide wet patch at the top, rendering the material nearly see-through. </p><p>"W-w-wait, wait, wait," Marty interrupts again, my fingers at the elastic, and I do, albeit reluctantly. "What now, Marty," I grunt, blowing air out of my nostrils, getting really irritated now. He looks at me, hesitantly, before speaking up. "I-... it's just... Do you really want to do this? Y-you don't have to prove anything." Goddamn, not this again. We fucked in a shower, for Christ's sake! I <em>asked</em> him to. "Look at me," I command him, grasping his thick thighs to support myself as I lean into him until we're almost nose to nose. "We're both adults here. If you don't want this, you can just punch me in the face," ... which would probably do the same trick, now that I think about it..., "and tell me to fuck off, but I know what I want and what I want right now is your big cock down my throat." I didn't think that his cerulean eyes could possibly expand any further, but there they are, and it's almost funny. "Didn-," he starts, and then coughs, choking on his own saliva, "D-didn't even know that you swing that way." Which way is that, exactly, I wonder as I pull away from him, proceeding to strip his briefs down his hips and off his dolphin-like legs with a few swift movements. </p><p>The sound and sight of Marty's heavy erection smacking wetly against his own taut belly makes my mouth salivate. It's thick and red, and fits the rest of the man perfectly. The man, whose fists are gripping the armrests like his life depends on it, his face flushed scarlet with embarrassment. Glancing at him in unashamed hunger, I don't waste time reaching out and wrapping my hand around his hot, pulsing shaft, giving it a few experimental tugs. A clear drop of pearly precome emerges at the slit. I yearn to taste it. Marty hisses at the touch, his fingers digging even deeper into the cushion, his head falling back against the back rest to face the ceiling in await for what's to come. "Oh, <em>god</em>..." Smirking to myself, I shift forward on my knees, letting go of his cock to grasp his hips instead, pulling him closer. "I need you closer, Marty," I murmur huskily, something tickling at the back of my throat then as the words leave my lips with more feeling behind them than intended. Luckily he does as he is told, as I suddenly lack the courage to look him in the eye. </p><p>Once Marty has shimmied his ass to the edge of the seat, I begin by gripping the base of his cock real tight and leaning in, giving the spongy head an exploratory lick. The fluid at the slit tastes salty and bitter on my tongue, and I find myself enjoying the invigorating tang of it immensely. Letting my eyes fall shut at the explicit pleasure of it, I lower my head, taking the whole tip into my mouth and sucking it gently. I can hear Marty gasping out a curse above me, practically swallowed up by the armchair as he braces himself for the ride. </p><p>I have never considered myself homosexual, or bi, or whatever they would call me these days, not that I have ever given the whole thing much thought in the first place, but I gotta admit that I have always, or at least occasionally, enjoyed the taste and feel of a nice, good cock in my mouth. I'm not ashamed to say it. Hell, I don't give a shit about stuff like that. Shame... and repentance, what are those two, anyway? Malwares of the mind, society's means of mass management, a nature-given lever evolved through thousands of years to maintain the illusion that all of our lives and all of our sins are not, in essence, ultimately inconsequential, and thus preventing the individual from using their fleeting, fundamentally meaningless existence as they see fit, keeping the flock in check by convincing them that there's some grand, common-good reason why their consciences are spinning the same, confined circle like an inbred, demented carousel while the wolves lurk on the outskirts, engaging in all manners of fornication among themselves. Making the beneficial sheep, like Marty, care so much about the particularities of <em>who</em> they're fucking, instead of just knocking themselves out and <em>fucking</em> <em>them</em>. I've never been able to identify with it, the people's obsession with sexual orientation. All I care about-... Hell, all I know is that today, tomorrow... I could be dead. So why should I deny myself anything? At least I sucked Marty Hart's dick. </p><p>Then again, I'm not sure if Marty's the appropriate example here. He certainly ain't got much conscience, ain't got many...<em> scruples</em> about screwing around his wife in general, and when he does, it shows up in the oddest places. </p><p>Enjoying the taste and texture of the mushroom tip of Marty's dick, and the intoxicating smell of musk rising off his body, I have him firmly in place as I let my lips and tongue wander down the long, veiny length of him, relishing in the frustrated huffing and squirming that my actions arouse. Returning to the tip, I then swallow him whole and start blowing him in earnest, taking more and more of him into my mouth until the prickly curls of his dark blonde pubic hair tickle my nose on every downward slide. A tortured groan is torn from Marty's lips and his hands fly off the armrests, sinking into my hair, his fingers knotting themselves into my slightly overgrown strands. The new sensation is somewhat foreign, but a definitely welcome one, and I find myself getting lost into the bittersweet assurity of it as I work to bring him pleasure. </p><p>Marty's calling out in wild abandon, holding my hair in a vice grip as I bob my head up and down on his prick. My own cock's straining in my briefs, begging to be touched, too, but I hardly notice it, only gratifying it with little undulating movements of my hips every now and then, the light friction of the inside of my pajamas slightly relieving some of the discomfort. All I can concentrate on is the sound of Marty's gruff voice, the feeling of his fingers pulling on my scalp and the silky smooth weight of his hot, hard length on my tongue. It's amazing what the whole, vast universe can be reduced to. </p><p>It doesn't take long until Marty's thighs start trembling, and I can feel my individual hairs popping off their follicles, the pain adding to the growing ache in my jaw. I welcome it wholeheartedly. Marty's moaning helplessly, desperate, aborted gasps of my name leaving his lips, as if he's trying to warn me. He doesn't make a move to pull me off of him, though, and so I don't, either, instead letting go of his dick to grab his hips, holding him in place as I take him closer and closer to the edge. </p><p>Finally Marty lets out a broken, guttural groan as he comes down my throat, the hot flood of his salty semen filling my mouth. I swallow it all down in one grateful gulp. Not that I exactly enjoy the taste, per se, but I don't have a particular problem with it, either. I bet Marty himself would think it revolting. </p><p>I get a sudden image of myself, a flashback to this dream of mine, where I'm on my knees and sucking on Marty's dick, much like right now, but with the exception that I'm stark naked and wearing handcuffs, whilst Marty's dressed in a police uniform, or some shit like that, but anyway, it goes straight to my own cock, and suddenly I feel this urgent, overwhelming need to come. "Ohhh <em>fuck</em>, Rust," I hear Marty gasping, still riding out his own orgasm, his hands unclenching in my hair and moving to sort of cradle my head instead in this awkward way. Letting his slowly softening penis slip from between my lips with an obscene, definitely deliberate 'pop', I swallow down the rest of his bitter seed and then, making sure to first meet his hazy, bewildered eyes, I squeeze my own shut, lowering my face to sink my teeth into the thin, rough flesh of his knee as I reach down to rub myself through the two layers of clothing. Marty hastens to intervene, presumably offering to lend me a hand, but there's no need. </p><p>It's over for me after just a few passes over my clothed groin, a helpless groan escaping from between my teeth as I come in my own pajamas, a full-body shudder running through me. I can indistinctly hear Marty babbling on about something as I weather through my orgasm. When my whole frame has finally ceased shaking, I slowly open my eyes, prying my teeth from Marty's knee. Licking my swollen, spit-slicked lips, I can see the deep, blushing indents that I have left on his pale skin, and suddenly I feel like the king of the whole fucking world, despite being on all fours on the floor like a damn dog. I feel like I could take on all the criminals in Louisiana, hell, all the criminals in the United States! Never mind Ginger's ragtag gang of outlaw trash. Fuck, I could take a bullet to the head right now and be content. </p><p>"Ho-lee shit," Marty breathes after a little while, letting out an absolutely obnoxious, low whistle as he lifts my chin up to meet my eyes. He appears both startled and blown out of his mind, the way he's gaping at me with his blue hues grown wide. My mouth tastes of his release, and for a moment it looks as though he might bend down to kiss it, the way his gaze is nailed to it. It shocks me as to how little I would mind it. "That crazy enough for you," I rasp at last, my throat dry and sore from Marty's admittedly commendably sized cock. The hilarity of the situation has begun to sink in on me. I'm down on my knees on the floor of my own apartment, with Marty Hart's semen cooling on my lips, and I've just jizzed in my own pants. Thankfully, terrifyingly, I find answering mirth on Marty's face. Soon the sound of his quiet, goofy laughter fills the empty space in my living room, and my chest. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Aand here you go, the second chapter of this fic! I hope you guys enjoy it, please tell me what you think :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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